Wind.
It's the one thing that's kept me going despite their incessant whining.
No matter how hard they may screech, the wind shall blow all of their damned cries away.
Tear it asunder, oh great zephyr.
Show me the strength of the skies, unabashed.
Don't ever hold back, show me how it is to be free. To be elevated amongst all. Bring me the sweet ambrosia of an unlimited world, and let me sip of your ephemeral essence.
A freedom that shall never end.
A freedom that shall toil on until the end of time.
For that is wind.
It never stops.
It howls and sends me forward.
It gives me breath and keeps me alive.
It instructs me, showing me where I shall lay my bonfire next.
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A loud caterwaul flew past his ear.
It was the wind, guiding his sailboat forward.
Flynn had always held the sea in high regard. Its infinite depths held the greatest of mysteries and high-value resources. Or, that's what he had learned from his half-assed education.
He sat upon a smaller bench, in which he could easily take in the view of the deep blue sea. As he watched, his eyes trailed over towards the sails, noticing the majestic cloth practically flailing in the wind.
Flynn rose, walked over towards the mast, and adjusted the sails. After fixing the sails for the optimal speed, he quickly glanced at the poster that was on the floor. After a small moment, his eyes returned back to the endless sea before him, searching for something…
No, someone.
As the infinite sea gathered around him, his mind drifted, coming back to why he had begun this water-filled journey.
Recently, Flynn had left home in hopes of becoming something more. Perhaps an adventurer whose achievements would be murmured throughout the crowds of geniuses, or a great pioneer for the future of exploration. He hoped for something of that caliber, especially considering his status before leaving.
After all, royalty was something of normalcy for him.
Gazing upon the boat beneath him, he remembered what a paragon of boating this was. This sailboat had been outfitted with the best technology there was at the time. This beauty had these amazing rudders, one of which could turn even in the wildest of storms. The very cloth that guided the boat forward was the most expensive material money could buy. The magnificent wood was that of great renown, found in the most elusive places—Forests miles in size, with trees of height that could parallel castles. That forest was an enigmatic place, but the bark that existed in that terrain was some of the greatest wood to grace the planet, or so his mother boasted.
Though Flynn didn't exactly entertain the idea of being such a privileged child, he'd absolutely take all he could get.
Considering he wouldn't have those luxuries anymore, it was within his best interest at the time to gather all of the supplies he'd need for the long and arduous journey ahead. The sea was a place of which enveloped all within this world. Each home, each island, each forest. All of it, the water embraced with heavy hands.
Albeit just as the ocean embraced and hugged its subjects as if a benevolent monarch, it did not hesitate to hang them on the gallows.
Flynn has heard of many stories from his overbearing mother regarding the danger of sea beasts, leviathans—which, due to their elusiveness, Flynn didn't necessarily care about—flying fish, dangerous fauna, magma spires, and horrible, scaled creatures that would cleave the water in half with their very existence.
Many more existed, but he'd never bothered to listen to his trivial tutor during his younger age.
Though even the sea itself wasn't anything to joke around with. The one thing his tutor constantly spat about, and jammed in his face at every second, was flying fish.
Apparently, they had been able to use their coarse skin to grind a boat down to practically only the materials. Torn to shreds, into nothingness.
Dust that would settle at the ocean floor.
Even the fiercest of sailors would be decimated upon contact. But solely upon contact. Without contact, they were as harmless as ever.
Especially considering their lack of intelligence. Such creatures were as annoying as a large rock in a river. Nothing more to it. It was an obstacle that, if encountered, could be fatal. Albeit, it solely mattered on whether or not you could get out of the way of this deadly rock.
With such a dichotomy, the sea was both the warm embrace of a calm sunny day; A day coated in the crystal clear and cerulean hue of the water—Flynn would commonly play and explore the sea during the times of such peace, despite his mother keeping a keen eye on him during these expeditions into the vast water—which spoke serenity into the heart of man, alongside a briny hand that clutched at that very same heart of man that found respite in it. A deep, dark that would rip and tear at the flesh that dared gaze into the depths below.
With such knowledge, taking foot into the ocean alone was certainly a horrible idea.
But for Flynn, who the wind guided forward to safety, it was a place harboring minimal harm. That is, as long as he didn't enter its depths. For no wind would pierce the veil of the void once within the murky twilight.
Flynn's introspection was stopped, as his lips parted in surprise. A grey hue was dissolving across the horizon. The many clouds around this distinct hue weren't close, but dotted the sky regardless.
He quickly restrained the sails and bolted towards the poster that lay on the floor. An archaic text was inscribed upon it; it read "Barragon, DEAD OR ALIVE" in large, inked words. He glanced upon the black drawing made upon the poster—A man with a shifty beard and a very out of place buccaneer hat, as if someone had drawn a hat on themselves.
Despite this, the source he had received this from was known to be credible. The Bounty Hunters never wasted a single drop of ink with their quills. This drawing was probably as accurate as can be.
He turned over the poster. Revealing some more information regarding the mysterious captain. It seemed that he had many qualms with leaving any place he'd come across in peace. Every spot he had placed his grimy foot on had led to islands being turned into a mess of incinerated ashes.
In accordance with this information, the grey clouds looming over that slowly growing dot on the horizon might be what he was searching for. It was rumored that Barragon was within the central islands after all.
The central islands pertained to some of the deepest depths the world boasted. That was the one of the only things Flynn actually listened to during the obnoxious 3-hour lectures from his banal tutor.
Due to this, many of the Divers actually invested quite the trade in maintaining this place to the utmost care.
Which explains the lack of beasts above the surface. Normally, he'd have to use the emergency cannons present upon his sea vessel; alas, the divers had done exceedingly well upon their claim to "Help Humanity".
In truth, Flynn, despite abandoning the Flowriders, wanted to keep what little relationship he had with the divers to the same level of care that they had done with the central islands.
The Divers' Guild was the front foot of humanity in terms of their exploration. Not to mention the number of connections he had just by being with them.
Flynn thought it was absolutely necessary to keep a prudential relationship with the Diver's Guild.
If not for them, he'd be in a whole debacle, one of which would probably end his currently short journey.
Though, to further specify regarding the beasts, their voracious nature was beyond anything he had been taught. Apparently, they had the bite force to tear right into a ship two times the size of his beloved sailboat.
With every second, he only became more grateful towards the Diver's Guild for keeping a relatively dangerous sea to its practical bare minimum.
Sea beasts such as those were relatively common and preyed upon humans. It seemed that for the beasts, humans were nothing more than a fat stack of protein wrapped in garbs and clothes. Without a single notice, a person could be grabbed straight from a beach and devoured.
Nothing more to it.
That was the fate of the unlucky human.
Their place in the food chain was high, but not high enough.
In mere seconds, anyone's life could be ended.
Though his educator was a nuisance to his daily life, this was the one and only thing he knew was of importance, no matter what.
The guillotine of the tides could, at any time, sever the span of an individual's life within mere moments.
A dreadful look was smeared across Flynn's face as he made this realization.
A realization he had made many times before, but each and every single time, it only struck his mind with more and more fear.
He had no choice but to extol the feats of the divers for not placing him within a life-or-death situation.
Albeit, Flynn had zero clue about how safe the sea could ever be at one time.
Flynn had to keep his guard up.
No matter what.
Despite the caution applied to the invigorated sea, it sure had its fill of rather "kinder" fauna. If one could even describe it as such.
The arbitrary disposition was that each little piece of kelp was usually host to many, many more. And, yes, they could be cooked—They tasted delicious—there was one major problem.
There existed a copy of these scrumptious kelp. One of which shared the exact same hue, texture, and appearance. The only dead giveaway was through the root, which was just barely red enough to make a difference in color.
What made these copycats such a death-causing snack was that they held a devious enmity for the palette.
Chances are, they could poison you. A deadly neurotoxin was encased within these masquerading plants.
This world's depths told mankind to fuck off, yet mankind remained standing.
A nice little note.
Alas, his mind paused all the introspection. He had better things to do.
Afterwards, his eyes searched for but a small moment before they located the room located beneath the mast. He approached the door and grabbed the gold knob before entering. He searched around in the relatively organized multi-purpose room. His eyes passed over each and every corner—it was filled with books, his fishing net, mementoes from his household, medical supplies, a lucky coin, and an entire barrel of crushed berries—until his eyes stopped upon a blue scabbard, with an ornate sword within it.
Before grabbing his most esteemed weapon, he grabbed a couple of throwing daggers from the cabinet nearby and placed them within his belt. He held the azure scabbard with his left hand, before his right hand caressed the hilt.
It was his prized possession.
The blade that his mother let him keep, despite their arguments.
He reminisced for a small moment before taking one last look at his dormitory.
This might be the last time he'd see it.
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The dot had grown into a full-blown charred island. An island writhing with smoke spilling out from its verdant innards. Scarlet and orange dyed all trees within a coat of fire, and the sky was permeated with a hefty grey fog, smothering all within the smoke of Barragon, the Everblazing.
Flynn set his boat a couple of feet away from the shore, ensuring his sailboat remained safe from the flames.
Though within the small piece of horizon he could make out past the burning island, he spotted a large ship, complete with 3 sails, gunmetal cannons, and a large insignia upon the cloth that sailed from the largest mast. This insignia was that of three skulls lined horizontally, alongside a lance pierced through all of them.
Flynn's lips twisted into a large frown as his eyebrows rose in disgust. The only unfortunate part of this quite amazingly drawn insignia was that the end and beginning of the lance had crudely drawn flames onto the handle and tip.
As if a troglodyte had drawn it.
How impertinent.
His eyes darted back towards the incinerating island, and he rose from the sailboat he owned and leaped into the water with an opulent motion.
As if a fish himself, he dove through the water, cutting through the aqua hue that was surrounding him, before he rose in front of the island gracefully.
Flynn swept his hair back, clearing any hair from his vision. He took a deep breath, realizing this would probably be the last bit of cold he felt for a long time.
He adored it with as much passion as he could, before setting his eyes towards his goal.
Take Barragon in.
Get the money.
Begin life anew.
With Flynn's goal set up, he unsheathed a glimmering dark blade, adorned with ornate gems and gold upon its handle.
An Obsidian Estoc, the one from his mother.
She had it specially made from the Seasmiths.
He marched forward, determined to make true on his new life away from privilege.
Away from luxury.
Away from exuberance.
Away from riches.
Walking towards the flames, Flynn stood poised, prepared to capture the filthy Barragon for his crimes.
Flynn: "Kauf… kauf…"
Flynn's hand rushed to his mouth in an attempt to cover a cough for someone who wasn't there. An innate politeness that had helped him throughout his childhood many times over. Though such a thing wasn't necessary during such a calamity.
His lungs, despite being honed throughout his youth, couldn't compensate for the lack of air present within the entrance to the cremated corpse of the island.
Flynn's dazed eyes searched for a path through the flames before spotting one.
—Suddenly, he heard a large, deep voice scream the words, "DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!"
He had his doubts on whether or not that distant noise had been Barragon or another part of his crew assisting the captain.
Either way, that was the best lead he had amongst the constant noise of crackling and crunching trees.
Flynn would make his way towards the dubious captain and claim his reward.
Of the information he was aware of, he knew none of Barragon's capabilities down to a finite strategy to combat his incinerating palms. He had simply gathered the necessary information that, through some mystical property, Barragon had the ability to generate fire from his hands or anywhere upon him. With the moribund island leaking its insides of smoke, the proof of this ability and its severity was directly in front of his face, spurting smoke in every direction.
Flynn's body was within a maze of smoke and fire as he walked around, the smoke obfuscating everything outside of a 20-foot radius.
Flynn would need to really push his luck for this.
He needed to find him before the smoke and fire forced him to become a worse color than the trees around him.
His eyes searched every corner as his hands carefully helped him evade any scorching foliage, which had been reduced to black branches upon the ground. He needed to find him, and despite going in the direction he had heard the forsaken noise, no such large man existed.
In the midst of his fiery search, he felt a sudden increase in heat.
As if he had found the very hearth of the flame itself.
Heat was distorting practically everything around him, yet his keen eyes spotted something amongst the exhausting smoke and crimson flames.
—A man, a tall, brooding, broad-shouldered man.
This man's hand was retreating from something, as if he had placed down an object. His meaty fingers retracted, a fist forming.
Flynn's eyes froze upon the behemoth's face. A distinctly patchy, yet malicious beard wrapped around the man's face, alongside a poorly strewn dress shirt.
The only thing missing was a Buccaneer's hat, but the face that presented itself within a fiery glory was a perfect mirror to that of Barragon.
—No, in truth, it was Barragon that stood before him.
Flynn had come face to face with a beast of a man, woven with contempt and hatred within Barragon's face.
Barragon: "So, what are ya? One of his friends or somethin'? No matter, just as he turned to a crisp, I'll make ya a nice acquaintance with that charred corps'."
That same rumbling, deep voice echoed amongst the crackles of flame and fire surrounding them.
Flynn knew his blade could withstand the heat, but the only problem was that, with the size of the man before him, could the durability of the obsidian withstand a clean blow from the colossal Barragon?
Surely this Barragon had zero magnanimous intentions; thus, Flynn's blade shimmered with a faint glow of red, reflecting the lively swathes of flame whispering into his ear at every second.
Years of constant training had been poured into this blade.
Despite its more rudimentary nature as a primitive Estoc rather than a rapid rapier only made it more special to Flynn. Knowing that he was constantly fighting with a disadvantage would only make the victories he inevitably reached feel all the better.
Besides, he had a malevolent disposition to turning what could've been a very useful island for his repairs into a furnace, smelting all usefulness right out of it. Such a contemptible action led him to feel a scorn that matched no other.
What a despicable character, truly.
Flynn: "And you are Barragon, I presume?"
His parched lips rasped as he pointed the tip of his Estoc at the selfish Barragon.
Barragon: "Yer absolutely correct, scum! Yes, I am Barragon, Captain of the Zerstorfire!"
Barragon's huge arms outstretched in either direction, flaunting his massive physique.
Flynn would've spat in disgust at such a malicious creature, but the moisture that originally lay within his body had practically evaporated already.
With a lick of his lips, Flynn spoke once more.
Flynn: "Then poise yourself, Barragon! I, Flynn of the Flowriders, shall take you down and turn you into the Bounty Hunters, you frivolous pirate!"
A creed that never felt right in his mouth, yet he wore their name on his sleeve. Flynn may have cast away his lineage into the wind, but he wanted to keep some sort of remnant of it.
A sad flaw that he wished he didn't have to acknowledge.
Yet, the scarlet hue reflecting off of everything around him spoke otherwise.
Barragon: "If yer really sure. Then, by all means, my friend! Attempt to whittle me down, ya flowridin' piece of shit!"
Within Barragon's hand, wisps of flame breathed to life with a nasty red color. It resembled each and every flame surrounding the two of them.
The wood turned to charcoal and creaked around them.
The sky was obscured within the grey smoke.
The world had been dyed a red-orange and grey color.
Flynn's body had been mercilessly trained by the greatest of combatants for a moment such as this.
Flynn would not relent at such a poignant moment.
He made this decision.
He had to keep it.
Flynn was a man of his word, after all.
Wasn't he?
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Barragon was a deckhand. Whose hands would sweep, and clean through peril.
Yet, his hands lit all that remained around him in a disastrous inferno.
Whether it was man,
Whether it was creature,
Whether it was friend,
All remained charred beyond recognition.
Before his cruel awakening, Barragon was but a man with many ambitions. Yet, no strength to attain those dreams. Within Barragon, there lay nothing but a seeming weakness.
A weakness that was formed from a lack of power.
A fragility that was born from a lack of will.
An inanity that was carved from a lack of strength.
Barragon remained a part of the crew. A simple deckhand. Nothing more, and absolutely less. He was worth nothing to the crew, simply an asset that was easily replaced.
Though there existed a rule laid within this beastly pirate crew.
The man to take the captain's head could take his place.
Whoever was able to kill the captain took his place and remained as the strongest.
As the captain, they could easily pillage.
Pillage, and take.
Kill and steal.
Destroy and devastate.
As captain, all authority remained solely within their hands. A captain retained immunity from all laws—or lack thereof at the time—and was able to do as they pleased.
With this knowledge, Barragon's mind shot towards one conclusion.
Ambition.
Right those who did him wrong.
Previously, in several expeditions, the crew had gotten done before. People regarded Barragon as nothing but a deckhand. Someone of complete and utter uselessness.
Not even a common sabre was entrusted to the filth that was Barragon.
Barragon hated it.
Barragon attempted to work his hardest, yet nothing of his was noticed. Despite his work into cleaning, nothing had seemed to change. His assiduous attempts were worth as much as the barnacles attached to the ship he'd always clean.
Barragon despised it.
Barragon tried to work within the battlefield, his expertise slowly gaining. Yet, nothing of his had been truly changed. His moves with the small dagger he had been provided remained callow and sluggish. When his crewmates looked at him, the only reflection he saw was pathetic, hideous, and disgusting.
Barragon couldn't handle it.
Barragon began to work without break. His now bruised hands skidded across each surface with fervent expertise, clearing each counter with a practiced technique, scrubbing each floor with unbeknownst swiftness. He felt as if his cleaning had finally improved. After looking over his work, it remained exquisite like each surface has been just varnished. When showing it to the helmsman, Hicht, he shook his head. It remained subpar. Hicht muttered about it being good enough. All of his hard work, his erudition in cleaning had been rewarded with nothing but a simple sigh from Hicht.
This loathing began to stew within him.
Barragon's body was heavy with exhaustion and contempt.
Why?
He worked hard enough, didn't he?
Was all of his mind-numbing work for naught?
Was it true that his work was just "enough"?
Was that all it was worth?
All of the tiring, monotonous, exhausting, fatiguing, jading, taxing, draining work, for absolutely nothing?
All of that was purely nugatory?
Was that the reality that lay ahead?
It was for something.
It meant something, his hard work, it was something,
Wasn't it?
It seemed not.
And so, he went back to work.
Cleaning, sweeping, polishing again.
He cleaned, swept, and polished again. He cleaned, swept, and polished again. He cleaned, swept, and polished again. He cleaned, swept, and polished again. He cleaned, swept, and polished again. He cleaned, swept, and polished again. He cleaned, swept, and polished again. He cleaned, swept and polished again.
Again, and again, and again and again, and again, and again and again, and again and again, and again, and again and again, and again and again, and again, and again and again, and again and again, and again, and again and again, and again and again, and again, and again and again, and again and again, and again, and again and again, and again and again, and again, and again and again, and again and again, and again, and again and again, and again and again, and again, and again and again, and again and again, and again, and again and again, and again and again, and again, and again and again, and again and again, and again, and again.
Why the fuck wouldn't it work?!
Barragon cast his shattered gaze into the ceiling above him, where Hicht's quarters lie.
He contemplated screaming at the top of his lungs for Hicht to realize Barragon's hard work was worth something, anything even…
…but Barragon began to realize.
It didn't matter.